Long Time Dead (Gus Dury 4) (6 page)

She’d went overboard, got herself a pole-dancing gig at a strip joint in the Pubic Triangle, ended up with some cell time and a threat of prostitution charges from plod. Hod was right about one thing: we didn’t want a repeat of that. But she was a smart girl; surely she’d have matured a bit in the intervening years. And this was small-time. I mean, how risky could it be for her to go shake down a few plooky students?

‘That was a different matter entirely, Hod.’

He looked away. ‘If you say so.’

‘What, you don’t? You think I’d put her in any danger?’

He shrugged. Set wide eyes on me. I got the message, loud and clear. Perhaps he was right – women like Amy always complicate matters. I had another idea to get to the facts, but it was a longer shot. Letting him think I was playing safe, said, ‘Okay, maybe we’ll put Amy on the bench for now.’

He seemed genuinely pleased. ‘Good, I think that’s for the best.’ Could tell he was still keen on the girl; another complication I could do without.

As I put my tab under the sole of my Doc Marten, white-van man screeched into the street at speed. It was Mac.

‘This our wheels?’ Was a Bedford Midi, white, but wearing almost as much rust. ‘Jesus Christ …’

Mac leaned out the window. ‘Your chariot awaits.’

We looked at him, said nowt. Took the sliding door and got in. Mac gunned it, Hod and I rolled onto our sides in the back.

‘Mac, cool the fucking beans, eh,’ shouted Hod.

‘Aye, okay, okay … It’s a bit jumpy in the low gears. Needs a servicing.’

‘Don’t we fucking all … but just keep the heid, eh.’ Hod brushed dust from his coatsleeve. ‘So, you were saying …’

‘What we want is an inside track.’

‘Come again?’

‘Some way of getting amongst the students and fishing out what the word is.’

‘Well, we’re both a bit long in the tooth for that gig. Don’t think we’d even pull off the mature student act.’

Mac shouted back to us, ‘What the fuck are you pair jabbering about?’

‘A job.’

‘What?’

‘We’re on a job … at the university.’

Mac laughed it up. ‘Only job you pair of widos will find at the university will be as fucking jannies!’

Hod’s eyes beamed, a smile split his face. ‘I think he’s onto something.’

Got my vote. Said, ‘Maybe you’re right.’

GOT OFF THE BUS AT North Bridge. Had managed two steps before some skanky yoof with a lip piercing started to seriously agg me, walking backwards waving fliers for a comedy gig. Got to love Festival time. I tried to walk around him, went left, then right. Wasn’t happening. Skinny jeans and Converse All Stars working overtime to keep up.

‘What’s your comedy passion, geezer?’

Did he just call me geezer? ‘Comedy passion … Go away and find sense, lad.’

Undeterred: ‘You look like a serious man. Political satire, I’m guessing?’

‘What’s that … Harpo Marx?’

Still undeterred, those matchstick legs doubled their pace. He wasn’t giving up. But he was new to this patter, I had that sussed early on. Turning my stride towards the edge of the pavement, I subtly steered Student Grant at the pile of cardboard boxes outside Argos. His legs actually managed to fly in the air at the same time as he hit them. His arse thudded into the boxes like an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote. Managed a laugh; almost felt grateful to him for that. Not grateful enough to help him pick up the fliers that floated into the gutter though.

At the uni I had a deep sense of unease; felt ready to go off like
a ten-bob rocket. Had already had enough of the type of brat who frequented this joint. Was relieved beyond words to see the place virtually empty. I fronted a tabard-wearing old girl with a mop. ‘Hello, there …’

World-weary eyes rolled skyward. ‘Aye?’

‘I was wondering, who’s running the show right now? Looks like the
Mary Celeste
in here.’

Didn’t register. I got pointed to the stairs, ‘Office is up there, might find some folk knocking about … Might no’, mind.’

I thanked her, gave a grateful nod, went for the stairs. I could feel the alcohol oozing through my pores. There was a cold sweat rising on my brow and an icicle forming on my spine. I knew it was time for a heart-starter, blast on the Grouse to melt the frost; knew that was an unlikely shout for the foreseeable. My stomach griped, threatened to start greetin’. I clenched fists in my pockets and tried to stamp the craving out on the marble steps. At the top landing I headed for the door. The office was empty save some tweedy Morningside lady with a teapot, mid-pour. Said, ‘Hello there.’

The biddy looked startled. The spout trembled; some tea escaped onto the saucer. ‘Oh, dear, dear.’ She started to move some papers away from the spreading spill.

I walked over, gave her a hand. She pressed out a weak smile, showing some yellowed teeth. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m looking for Mr Calder.’

‘Oh yes … he’s in today.’

Playing it cool: ‘He is. Grand.’

She took a box of man-size tissues from a desk drawer. ‘He’s been in the whole time. Pretty much gave up his vacation since the, well, y’know …’

I watched her mop up the tea. ‘Since the … ?’

‘Incident.’ She spoke sharply, I missed all intonation. Thought: Pity – would like to have noted that.

‘You mean the Ben Laird … incident.’

She straightened her back, eyed me full-on. ‘Yes.’ She walked
away with the pile of wet tissues, dropped them in a bin on the other side of the desk, said, ‘If you’re looking for Joe, he’s in his office.’ A hand went onto her hip. She pointed to the door, continued, ‘Down the corridor, second door on the left … His name’s on the front.’

I smiled, thanked her. Something about her manner, about the way she dismissed Ben’s death as no more than an
incident
, like it was all just an inconvenience, troubled me. I wanted to press her but I knew this wasn’t the time. Probably wasn’t the place either, but I’d be fucked if I was giving Joe Calder the same consideration. The man at the helm needed his buttons pressed right away. There was something about this case that reeked of cover-up – of those with the power abusing it.

Turned for the corridor; took the oak boards all the way down to the white-painted door with the brass nameplate on it. The prick had been pretentious enough to have the string of letters engraved after his name too. Cut no ice with me. Thought about knocking but it’s not my style.

Strode in, took a look about. Calder was fifty-odd, but could have passed for ten years shy of that mark. He had a lot of hair, swept back over a high forehead and tucked behind his ears, sitting in tight curls above his shoulders. From a certain angle it looked like a very bad mullet, the kind that sat over a Klem top on Hibs casuals of the eighties. Didn’t rate my chances of getting along with him. Maybe it was the ox-blood brogues. He sat upright, seemed to focus on my tweed, calmed some, said, ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

I strolled to the bookshelves beside his desk, eyeballing the titles. Lit on some Foucault, Sartre, Derrida … maybe he wasn’t a total arsewipe after all. I wasn’t betting on that, though. He got out of his chair, started to stroll over to me. ‘Excuse me, but is there something I can help you with?’

I turned, gave him the once-over, head to toe, said, ‘Might just be, Joe … might just be.’

His brows lifted. A loose curl of dark hair unfurled from his
fringe, he swept it back with a very weak wrist movement, went, ‘Do I know you?’

‘I don’t know, Joey Boy … do you?’

The puzzled look turned to panic. ‘Look, what the hell is this? You come into my office and—’

I raised a hand to my mouth, motioned
shush
. He stilled, stepped back, it has to be said, nervously.

I went, ‘I’ve been speaking to … your new rector.’

‘What … I mean, what do you mean?’

‘Shouldn’t that be a why … or perhaps even a when?’

He ran fingers through his hair, straining to produce a dim smile. ‘Right … this is some kind of joke, is it? Has Gillian put you up to this?’

I moved past him, sat on the edge of his desk. Stubbed a finger into the thick layer of dust, blew it away. ‘Joke … do you think Gillian’s in the mood for jokes after her son’s been murdered?’

Calder’s face drained of all expression. If there was any colour left it was in his lips … and they were blue.

‘Don’t forget to breathe, Joey Boy. I hear that can seriously impair your health … Y’know, like a fucking noose round your neck.’

He raised his hands to his ears, splayed fingers, then shot past me, ran for the other side of the desk and picked up the phone. He bashed a few digits, said, ‘Margaret, Margaret … is that you?’

I followed his steps slowly, faced him.

Calder said, ‘Good, can you please get that security guard up here, I have—’

I reached over the desk, cut off the phone. Calder stood with the receiver in his hand, looked at it, looked back to me, said, ‘I want you out of here right now … whoever you are, I want you off the premises right now or I’m calling the police.’

I started to chuckle; couldn’t remember putting the shits up another grown man with such ease. ‘Look, Joey Boy, who the fuck do you think you’re kidding? We both know the last person you want round here is plod.’

He lowered the phone, placed the receiver in its cradle. As he did so the door behind me swung open. A borderline obese fifty-something with a Ray Reardon slick came puffing in and nodded breathlessly towards us. ‘Everything okay here, Mr Calder?’ The words came out slowly, gave us all time to think.

‘Erm, no, Mick … actually, I mean, yes … everything’s fine.’

I gave the security guard a tug of the forelock; he backed out the door like a trained spaniel. Knew inside of five he’d be back in his doocot scratching his balls and whistling through his teeth at the high nipple-count in the
Star
.

I waited for the footsteps to fade from the corridor, let Calder be seated, said, ‘Now then, quite a sorry fucking mess we have here, eh?’

‘I don’t know what you’re referring to at all but—’

I cut him off, slamming hands on the desk. ‘Don’t cunt me around, Joey Boy … or it might just be your scrawny neck in the noose next.’

You get guys with out-there hairstyles, there’s usually a reason for it: mam did them a bowl-cut right through to their teenage years; maybe they got stuck on Bono’s
Joshua Tree
look, never got over themselves, or woke up to the fact that U2, and Bono especially, were such a bunch of wank that it was actually deeply embarrassing to contemplate. Joe Calder, it suddenly struck me, was wearing his hair long for much simpler reasons – if he didn’t, he’d be the spit of Louis Theroux. He had the selfsame gangly gait, the slightly lost look to the eyes, hiding behind double-glazed glasses that could do with a good wipe. He also had that stalled, almost addled, way of communicating; like a deeply self-conscious teenager who wanted desperately to stay a small child because it had worked so well for him in the wrapping-adults-round-their-little-finger stakes. He was a man-child; guessed he’d been spoon-fed through life. He’d probably came straight to academia from his own schooling and never left because he had found the perfect place to hide. I don’t think I’d ever met a man more deserving of a slap around … Christ Almighty, disguising the look of Louis
Theroux with a fucking Michael Bolton hairstyle was seriously call-the-doctor time.

‘Right, Joey Boy … you and me are gonna have a bit of a chat here.’

He fidgeted in his chair; the castors beneath him squeaked. He held schtum. Gave him this: he had marbles, knew when to keep his trap shut. There was nothing he could come up with that was going to dig him out with me. I had him pegged as up to his nuts in Ben Laird’s death and I wasn’t letting up on him. The sheer look of this streak of piss was enough to have me gantin’ for his scalp; fact I had him on the back foot was all a bonus.

I eased back – felt like a leopard with a gazelle – ready to cane some big-time arse. ‘Yeah, make yourself comfortable, Joey … I’ll be taking my time here.’

He got jumpy, arked up, ‘Look, I have plenty to be getting on with … without this.’

I laughed in his face. ‘Trust me, laddo, you’ll have fuck all else to be getting on with for the foreseeable.’ I put the bead on him. Caught his eye; my own was steel, but he blinked and looked away to the bookshelves. Thought to tell him there were no answers there for him; he could keep his learning. Way I was playing it, there was no
Dummies
guide could help him. I kept it zipped, though, let him squirm a bit, wonder what in the name of fuck I was playing at.

I strolled over to the window, stared out, removed a pack of Rothmans and sparked up. ‘Quite a spot you have here,’ I said. I turned head in time to see Calder shrug. Of course he had no idea how nice a spot this was, he’d known nothing else; slogging in a call centre or wheeling tyres at Kwik Fit wasn’t ever on the cards for this arsewipe. I drew deep on my tab, felt a heavy craving for something a bit stronger. My throat constricted with every twinge of desire. I was suddenly in the ballpark of hallucinations; don’t know where the feeling came from but it welled up in me, sent tremors through my bones. I wanted to shake myself, step outside my body, but there was nowhere to run. I was trapped. My hands started to tremble. I took a nervous glance at Calder – he was
staring at his shoes, had seen nothing. The moment had passed off without incident, but I knew there was going to be a time when I wouldn’t be so lucky.